Branded Bruises
by Night Lily
Summary: Phantom of the Opera Phic A year after the chandeleir falls, the opera house is being used as a concert hall and a young violinist comes to perform. Erik is intrigued.
1. Chapter 1

Just as the boat slipped out of sight, he thought he saw Christine turn one last time to see him crumple to the floor. He sat staring at his hands, the mob sounding louder than it had moments before. Let them come, they would end it all and he would be without the pain. Without the solitude.

He could still taste her. His lips were swollen with what had saved her. How could he go through with it all after this gift she had given him? Never before had anyone showed him affection. His mother never held him, made him where the mask. Giry had helped him escape the circus, but had never gone to see him after that, only related his messages to the opera managers.

The sounds of the mob died off. They weren't going to be coming. He would live alone once more. Slowly turning, still kneeling on the floor, he saw it. A sash from Christine's _Don Juan_ costume. He picked it up reverently and smelled it. Carefully, gently, he folded it and stood. A box on his desk became its new home, closed tightly to keep the scent of her on it as long as possible. He slowly then went to his bed and collapsed. If anyone came, he would be there to die. If no one did, he would wake to find if anyone planned on fixing the chandelier.

_One Year Later_

The strings burned beneath her fingers, but she didn't stop. Sawing away with the bow, notes flew out of the soundbox and into the bare theatre. She stood alone on the stage, the orchestra in the pit in front. The music was fast, her flying with some cellos playing rhythmic chords below. She finished her cadence and the orchestra began to play in full. Opening her eyes. She saw how large and grand the hall really was. She breathed in quickly and looked down at the conductor. This wasn't right. Something wasn't right.

"Maestro, I'm sorry, excuse me." He looked up and cut off the rest of the players. "Why am I on the stage alone? Every other concert I've ever done, especially a concerto concert, had the orchestra on stage with me in front. This is an odd set up. Its also difficult for me to follow the cellos in that section."

"Mademoiselle, I am sorry, but the managers demanded the set-up."

"Yes, we did!" Two men in suits came rushing in from the stage wings where, she now saw, several dozen were clustered.

"Sirs, I'm sorry, but this set-up is all wrong! Can't we do a traditional set with me next to the maestro?"

"Well," blustered the larger man, "We feel that this set is better for our target audience, as they are typically used to Opera, with a lone figure to focus on."

"Yes," cut in the other man, "We feel that putting everyone on the stage would be crowded and would look chaotic."

"Fine," the woman sighed, "but I need a break, my fingers are blistering and that wouldn't be good for tomorrow." Everyone agreed and she walked offstage. These people were obviously used to dealing with an overly demanding diva, as in any other rehearsal she would have been reminded of her contract to attend all rehearsals in their entirety. At 24, Cassandra had been touring Europe for 3 years. She knew the way the stage should be set and these men questioning her made her question whether they really knew who she was.

In her dressing room, she wrapped her fingers in medical tape and began gingerly wiping at her violin with a cloth. It was beautifully crafted, made by the Cremonese master Girolamo Amati. She had played a Stradivari once and marveled that she favored the Amati, especially with the publicity the Strads would get. All the same, she loved her Amati and cared for it scrupulously.

Placing the violin delicately in its silk lined case, she turned to look in the mirror. Her hair was falling out of its tight bun, but that was to be expected after the train, car, and the immediate rehearsal. Thankfully, the plan was to stay in Paris for several weeks, maybe even a few months, before moving on. The Paris Opera House was the first and, currently, only booked show for the time being.

It seemed odd that an Opera House would want to host a violin concert, but, from what she could gather, they were taking a break from Opera after a string of nasty incidents. The house's chandelier had fallen the year before and it had taken time to repair the structure and restore it properly. Then came the rumors of what had caused the disaster, some sort of ghost. There were those that swore he was a man that lived beneath the theatre. Cassandra, upon hearing these, had shook her head with a small smile. These stories were often invented in the arts to start scandal or develop intrigue, thus boosting ticket sales. However, the managers she had so far encountered seemed incapable of such a plot, and there was the chandelier.

There was also talk that the managers were looking to sell the theatre. They had even suggested Cassandra buy it. She did own a small opera house in the outskirts of London, but it had managers she had hired and the most she got from it was the opportunity to perform whenever she wanted and enough money to keep her in nice shoes. The Paris Opera House was another matter altogether. She had the funds to buy it, yes, but the upkeep, managers, and with these rumors…

She decided she had kept the rehearsal stalled long enough and went to join the rest of the musicians. Before she left, she turned to pick up her violin and caught a glance in the mirror. She could have sworn she had seen a masked face in the reflection.

Cassandra avoided her dressing room for the next few weeks of performances and rehearsals, which was no easy task. She had a room in the dorms of the Opera House, down the same hall where the ballerinas slept. She kept all of her things there, but at every rehearsal and practice had to go through the bowels of the theatre to get any privacy. Finally, after one particularly difficult performance, she allowed herself back into her dressing room.

It was just as she had left it, everything in its place. She was scared to look in the mirror and instead avoided it. She sat in the chair of her vanity and began taking off her makeup. It was several shades darker than her actual skin color and taking it off made her cringe. Her skin was almost translucent and made her feel sick to look.

Her mother had been Greek, her father British. Her skin should have had the dark timbre of her mother, but it was instead the color of fine paper. She began taking down her hair next. It was long, running down past her hips. Her mother had never allowed her to cut her hair, and one could tell by looking at its length.

After she had properly stored her violin, she ventured to turn to the mirror. Its reflection was as it should have been, except she still felt anxious, her heart pumping as though she had been running. She stared a moment more before turning.

"The second movement is still too slow." For a moment, she stood there, praing she had been imagining the voice. "And your tone in the Vivace could use some work." Her heart beat madly and she thought she might cry. Turning back to the mirror, she could see him. Inside the mirror. With his mask.

She walked towards the mirror, staring at him, and reached out to touch the plate of glass. It moved. He watched efforts as she first pushed it forwards, then tried to slide it before finally figuring it out. He stood there in the passage behind her mirror. She immediately felt calmer, at least confident he was a real living being rather than some peculiar spirit that liked to give musical critique. He seemed pleased she had figured the mirror out on her own.

"So you're the phantom, I presume?" she asked in her cocky way that came on when she was nervous.

"I am," was all he replied. His voice was low and almost seemed to rumble.

"Do you play," she asked curiously, indicating her violin case.

"On occasion," he replied.

"Would you like to play a duet?" She really didn't know what she was doing. She was in a state where she was frightened, yes, but very VERY intrigued by this man that had come out of her mirror.

"No," he replied, turning to leave.

"Will you come back?" Cassandra asked in a friendly voice.

"Perhaps."

"I will see you soon, then." He stalked away after that and Cassandra replaced the glass.

Over the next week she saw him almost every night. He was very short in all of his words and seemed to prefer talking through the mirror to face to face encounters. Every night she asked him if he would like to play duets, every night he would say no.

After being at the Opera house for almost 2 weeks, it was decided that they would continue featuring Cassandra, only she would play afternoon matinees before the Opera. They were going to be putting on La Traviata. Cassandra also offered to perform in the chorus, but had instead been asked to play in the pit. She declined this and instead took to lurking in the wings and rigging during the show.

It was two days into this show when Cassandra came upon the Phantom backstage.

"Would you still like to play duets?" he asked softly. She nodded dumbly and he followed as she went to retrieve her violin in her dressing room. They went through the mirror and followed the corridor. He walked a few steps ahead of her and glanced back every few feet to see if she was still there.

They then got into a boat, and ended up in a kind of den in the water. She looked around curiously as he followed her. There were spaces where it seemed as though something had once sat there and now was gone, and wall space that was abruptly bare. Papers lay in wadded balls in a pile next to a bookshelf, looking like failed attempts to draw.

The Phantom had a produced a violin sometime and brought it up to tune it.

"I forgot my music," Cassandra admitted. Without a word, the Phantom turned to produce a music stand with handwritten music on it. He brought up his violin and waited for her to do the same.

"Top or bottom?" she asked, referring to the music.

"Guests always on top," he replied with a slight twinge of a smirk. Cassandra struggled to conceal her blush and laughter at the same time when she began playing. The music started off soft and simple, then abruptly became violent and dark. Her melody soared above the rhythmic sawing of his part. She realized this was her concerto that she had played the first week, only different. Better. The melody was similar, but more technically complicated and the chords were all deeper. It was written to be bigger and deeper than the original piece, though there were only two playing rather than the entire orchestra and soloist. When she was done, her brows were knitted together as she tried to analyze the piece in her head. He was watching her, almost like a student watching a teacher grade his paper. She looked up at him, then back at the music.

"Did you write this?" she asked in awe.

"Yes," he replied simply.

"Its amazing," was all she could muster. She looked into his eyes, one almost hidden by the mask he wore. He stared back until breaking his gaze to walk back to put away his instrument. He then sat down at his desk and began work on something. Cassandra went behind him and looked at what he was working on. It was a technical drawing of a cathedral. Its design was gothic in nature, but it had more circles and curves than one usually sees, including a dome over the sacred chapel. Cassandra turned to look at his profile, him ignoring her. He was handsome with a dark brooding look that fitted him nicely. His shirt was slightly open in the front, a simple French style shirt.

"Why do you wear the mask?" she ask softly, gently. He closed his eyes, his mouth twisting until he looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. He turned to look at her with this look, and she was almost scared. Almost. But when he looked into her eyes, he didn't see the look of morbid curiosity he expected, but of concern. As though she knew what he must face, what the mask must feel like.

He wanted to tell her, but couldn't. He wanted her to understand, but feared she wouldn't. He suddenly wanted to be alone, but couldn't bring himself to move or break from her gaze. Her eyes started to tear, but why he couldn't understand. His mouth opened enough for him to breathe and she stared at it. Eye contact broken, he looked back down at his work in confusion and wanted to cry himself, but wouldn't, couldn't, bring himself to that humiliation. Looking back up imploringly, he saw her and carefully reached up to remove the mask.

He expected her to look repulsed, maybe scream at the sight as those had in the theatre. She didn't. The tears spilled and she looked on him with compassion. She asked permission with her eyes before reaching out to touch the gruesome scars. She grazed lightly along his hairline, then along his cheekbone.

"I'm so sorry," was all she could whisper. She lay her palm flat against his cheek and held his face like that for a moment. He reached out to touch her face in the same manner, but she jumped back quickly. Hurt, then anger flashed through his eyes. The sour look came back and he jumped up, startling her even more.

"You lie, pretend to be compassionate when you really fear to be touched by such a monster, am I correct?" he raved. Her tears poured down once more and she apologized repeatedly, "I'm so sorry," all that she could muster. He went to grab her and stopped. She had touched him first. She didn't fear him.

"Why did you flee my touch?" he asked softly. She looked up and met his gaze.

"I get burns," she replied haltingly, "on my face mostly, but anywhere." She looked as though she struggled for a way to convey what she was trying to convey. "I'm allergic to the sun," she finally conjured. Slowly, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress to show discolorations in browns, reds, and whites. "If I go outside during the day uncovered, I get burned, sometimes very badly. I tilted my head the wrong way today and my face…" she trailed off. Going to her violin case, she found the soft cloth she used to wipe down her violin. Carefully, gingerly, she wiped at her face so that the dark makeup came off. There was a vague patch where her cheek became her neck that was a bright red contrast to the rest of her pale, ghostly face.

Phantom just stared. He had never met another like him in any way, let alone with marks and boundaries like him. She had to wear a mask of protective clothing and hats to protect her from the light, whereas he had to where the mask to protect him from the people. He reached out and touched her face above the mark. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly.

"What's your name?" Cassandra asked softly.

"Erik."


	2. Chapter 2

Soon after their strange show and tell, Erik led Cassandra back up to the surface. They spoke little, both trying to understand the mystery of the other. Before she went back through the mirror to her dressing room, she turned to face him.

"May I come back?" she asked timidly. He looked into her eyes and nodded. She smiled a little.

"But you can not wear the makeup around me," he told her. She bit her lip a little and looked troubled. The makeup, however superficial it may seem, helped her look normal. That was the problem though, she realized. It was her mask.

"Will you not wear the mask around me?" she asked quietly, looking at his face, but avoiding his eyes. When she did look at them, they were large and, almost, frightened. She locked gaze with him. He pursed his lips, then exhaled in some kind of confusion. "You must go," he said softly, avoiding her request. She smiled a little at him before turning to return to her world.

The next day went by without event. Her concert was unremarkable, except for her recognition of an odd shadow in the number 5 box. She smiled lightly in that general direction before beginning her sonata. It was three movements, the first grand and lively, the second a sweet largo, the third a lively upbeat jig. She couldn't help but smile during the jig, almost wanting to dance along with the music she was playing. Instead, she stood and played in the traditional manner, not so much as tapping her foot.

After her concert and before the opera was set to begin, the theatre's managers came to visit. Without so many words, they wondered if she really would be interested in buying the opera from them. It seemed they wanted to get back into their scrap metal business, away from divas and chandeliers and phantoms. Back to basics, they kept saying. Cassandra promised to think on it, that she needed to speak with her other managers and see if she could find one to keep it for her, but she was interested. A week, she could tell them in a week. They seemed satisfied with this reply and left without a word on the performance.

After caring for her violin, she went quietly to her room in the dorms, passing an array of ballerinas in various degrees on undress.

Cassandra smelled that scent of spice and musk and ink and water. Looking around subtly, she looked straight up and caught sight of his cape whipping out of sight in the rigging. She smiled a little before returning to the present and navigating around the crowd to her room.

She put her violin away and proceeded to write a letter to her managers, asking for advice on the opera house. Before she had signed her name, she heard a knock. Opening the door, there was no one. When she turned, she saw one of her walls opening up and Erik was there.

"Erik, how are you?" she asked with a large smile on her face. He avoided her gaze at first, then, looked in her eyes.

"I came to speak with you concerning the theatre." She was surprised he knew, as she hadn't told him and was sure the managers didn't converse with him regularly. She indicated a chair in the corner which he pulled towards her desk where she sat.

"You should buy the theatre," he started out, looking at his hands.

"But, my resources are limited, I need to be sure it is a move that would bring in money, not waste it." He stared at his hands through the conversation. She carefully reached over and touched one of his hands with concern. He looked up quickly. "Are you alright," she asked gently. He went up to rub his eyes in tired, but his finger caught his mask and he cursed as it came off. Scrambling to replace it, Cassandra touched his arm. He looked at her and she at him, reaching out to calm him and reassure him. She smiled to show it was alright and took the mask to place it on her desk.

"Why do you wish for me to own the opera house?" she asked outright. He seemed startled by her forwardness.

"I think you would run it better than those buffoons down there," he replied honestly.

"Ah, but I would not be running it," she replied with a small smile. "I would have a manager come in to take care of it for me, just as I do my other investments." He seemed troubled by this news. She pursed her lips and tried to understand him. He was an enigma, that much was certain. "Why do you stay here?" she asked quietly.

"Why do you pester me with questions relentlessly?" he snapped. She scowled.

"Because I wish to understand you and you don't seem the kind to forfeit information readily," she snapped back. He seemed amazed that she was able to play his game without cringing or crying, as most did.

"I live here because I can," was all he answered.

"I've heard rumors…about you, before we met," she began cautiously. This was indeed something that had been bothering her since their first encounter. How was it that someone so seemingly human could be portrayed by others as such a monster? He seemed to close off immediately and rose to leave, taking his mask off her desk to replace it.

"I see you are the same as the rest, and so I will leave you to your devices. Purchase the house if you wish, but remember that I am part of the bargain."

"Erik," she started in surprise. He didn't turn to look behind as he hurried back through the door in the wall.

Cassandra huffed in aggravation and went back to her letter. She signed it hastily and sealed, hurrying out of her room to try to make the evening post. Weaving through the maze of halls backstage of the opera house, she stopped abruptly when she heard an interesting conversation around the corner. She wasn't one to eavesdrop, but this seemed a situation that demanded her attention.

"He let them go, told them to go to the surface, and that's when we found them coming out," a young and gentle voice told.

"He let them go," an older voice continued, the voice of Madam Giry, "because he loves her. He now lives in misery at what he lost."

"She made her choice, he made one as well. I wish it had ended better for him, but she can not be what he needs."

"He wanted her to be his dreams, but she is only what she is. You are better to not dwell on how it could have been, but don't forget him. He is brilliant, no matter what others may say, and needs a partner. I fear without one, he will only strike out again."

"I feel for those he strikes," the young woman said quietly. Cassandra was fairly certain it was Madame Giry's ballerina daughter, Meg. The pair walked together down the hall and Cassandra hurried to deliver her letter, not sure what to take from the discussion. Could they be talking about Erik? Should she ask Madame Giry about him? Or Meg?

Erik was distraught. Confusion and conflicting thoughts racked his every conscious thought. Christine had been his one, his only, his angel. How could he betray her memory? To him, she had died. Raoul had killed her and taken her so he had not even a grave to tend. He had taken down all the pictures he had drawn of her in his grief. The mirrors he had broken and the wooden box on his desk were the only signs of that dreadful night. He had yet to open the box to feel and smell the soft scarf that lay in its keeping. He was in mourning.

But this new woman, she was intriguing. When she was around, he forgot his grief, he wanted to be unmasked and honest and good. He had never been that way with Christine. She was too good, too pure, to have to stand the sight of his face. This new woman even desired to see it, to feel the companionship they shared in there bruises and scars. When she had shown him her true complexion and the marks on her arms, he had almost melted with the desire to be with her forever, to have a companion that understood, not just someone that tolerated his appearance. Someone that loved him.

He had loved Christine, that much was certain, but she was gone. He had asked her not to return and, after all that had happened, he was sure she would not, especially with Raoul her warden. His blood boiled at the thought of the two of them together and he quickly pushed it out of his mind to dwell on other things.

He hadn't wanted to storm out on Cassandra earlier. She made him feel, something he had been avoiding for the past year. He thought of her now the way he had once Christine. However, rather than embracing the obsession, as he had Christine, he struggled to avoid it with Cassandra. He could not go through the loss once more, and she would leave him now. He had walked out on her without any reason at all. She was as stubborn as he and, between the two of them, they would be hard pressed to address the problem.

And the bloody opera house, it was always there. He had wanted Cassandra to buy the opera house so that she would remain in Paris, remain near him. This business of hired managers squashed that plan as soon as it was hatched and he went back to his plan of eternal solitude. No matter how he convinced himself of this, though, he heard the rhythm and melody of a violin and followed it to her.

Cassandra had made the evening post and went now to find solitude in practice. She longed to be outside, now that the stars were out, and ventured to find a way to the rooftop. It was a mild night and the roof was pleasant with no wind to blow her music about. She tuned her instrument with the ability only those playing since early childhood could. She heard the pitch in her head constantly and was comforted by it. It was this that she tuned her violin with every rehearsal. It was always perfect with the pianos and harps. An oboe had once had the audacity to argue with her until she produced a tuning fork and stunned them all with her accuracy. She smiled to herself, remembering the event.

Putting the instrument to her chin, she began playing the concerto from her first performances in Paris from memory.

"Your second movement is still too slow," came from her left. She abruptly and see Erik watching her from the side of a gargoyle.

"How do you do that?" she asked in exasperation. He shrugged and came to her side.

"Honestly, try playing it faster, and rush a bit through the eighth notes." Cassandra's brows knit together, as she did when she thought, and she brought her instrument up to try his suggestion. It was a short movement, and with his suggestions it was even shorter.

"It sounds sadder," she commented. He just stared at her. She went over to her case and took out her cleaning cloth and wiped down her instrument. She could tell no practicing would go on from here. Before putting away the cloth, he turned to look at Erik. He was watching her calmly. She took the cloth and wiped off all of her makeup so that the discolorations and abnormalities were visible on her face. Done, she turned to face him. After staring at him for a moment, he gave in and reached to remove his mask. Cassandra smiled.

"Its nice to have someone to be myself with," she commented. She untied a shawl that she had tied around her waist in case of cold and spread it like a blanket on the ground, sitting down on it. The phantom just watched. When she was settled, she looked at him, waiting to see if he would join her. He seemed to fight with himself for a moment before sitting a few feet away on the plain tiles of the roof. Cassandra looked up at the sky.

"Do you ever wonder why there are stars?" she asked. Erik just watched her. "I mean, scientist tell us what they are, but can they tell us why they are? What purpose do they serve, not really producing enough light to help…or harm," she stumbled over her words a bit, "but they are still there. Why?" She continued to stare up.

"To be beautiful," Erik replied. Cassandra lowered her head to look at him and smile. He just stared into her eyes. He was so intense it scared her at times, but she was so intrigued she couldn't be truly frightened.

"Some would say beauty is vain," Cassandra quoted, "and useless and…and biased." She seemed to be getting a little worked up, her face reflecting the battle her mind was fighting. "There is no use to beauty, but to attract the opposite sex, and once that attraction has occurred, what? A life of commitment and…and security and help and…and love…" She was crying now, her thoughts not making sense, her ramblings not understandable.

Erik was unsure how to respond. He knew this battle, he had had it himself. One struggles to downplay what one really desires most of all in an attempt to make come to terms with its eternal absence. His first instinct was to hold her, as he had wanted when he had had these realizations, but could not bring himself to give her what he had so long been denied.

It was at this moment that she looked at him. Her eyes were only a little red from her recent tears, the patches of red on her face redder now because of the salt in her tears. Browned tan spots were apparent from past burns and her neck was pale from the collars she typically wore in the daytime. But her face, its shape, its curves and contours, were beautiful. She was beautiful, no matter who told her otherwise. He knew this, but could not give her that comfort.

Before he could argue with himself more, though, she had come towards him. Only a few inches, but enough for him to notice. She faced him and never broke eye contact, never let her eyes wander to his scars as he had with her.

He slowly reached out and cupped her face gently.

"You are beautiful," he whispered. He looked down at her bare arms and touched them softly, noticing their feel and not their appearance. Cassandra reached up and touched his face as she had before. This time, though, it wasn't in recognition of his deformity, but in his beauty, for he was beautiful as well and she told him as much. Then, she slowly leaned forward and kissed his scarred cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

The next weeks held no call or visit from Erik. Cassandra spent her evenings in rehearsal or just watching the opera company from backstage. She paced around slowly, keeping alert, hoping to catch sight of that cape or to smell his peculiar scent. It came to where she only had a few days before she was scheduled to leave the opera house and move on to the Paris Conservatory to do a series of master classes. Unable to find a manner of communication to her friend, she merely wandered about in hopes of finding him. She had considered following the tunnels behind her dressing room mirror, but the memory of the boat stopped her. She would get to the river with no way to cross it. And the intrusion if she did attempt that path…He may be angry. All this time the managers were trying to convince her to buy the opera house as well. Her manager had said, if she was truly interested, to purchase it and he could come manage it, leaving her smaller investment in the hands of one of his subordinates. It seemed as though everyone was in favor of her purchase of the opera house, even Erik. He had never said why, but she knew it was what he wanted no matter what he said.

It was in this attitude that she finally developed the courage to go down the corridor behind the mirror and force him to talk to her. "Force him," she laughed to herself. She doubted one could force him from a burning building if he didn't want to go, as stubborn as he could be. In their short friendship she had discovered that. She went in the morning, hoping he would have little else to do at that time of day. It also gave her a way to avoid the invitations out into the sun that everyone gave her daily. Slipping into her dressing room unnoticed, she went to the mirror and pushed it aside.

Erik sat at his desk. He had been working on the work for weeks, and had rarely left or even eaten. He needed to get it done. He had to finish it. The deadline was approaching and she would leave him. She would be dead to him. He needed to hurry. He needed to work. He needed…sleep. His head slouched and lay on the paper he had been writing on.

It was in this manner that Cassandra found him. A boat had been tied where the corridor met the river, begging her to take it. As she climbed out of the boat, she stared at his back hunched over the desk he worked at. She didn't want to startle him. She stood on the steps for a moment, before softly beginning to hum. It was how her father had always awoken her when she was little, humming softly, slowly getting louder till she awoke. She kept her humming low and slowly approached him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

His head rose and he turned to look at her.

"Good morning," she said softly, smiling at him, proud at his not being angry with her for her manner of waking him. He simply stared at her.

"You found your way alone?" he asked quietly.

"Don't be angry with me," she all but begged, "I missed you and couldn't find you anywhere. I have to leave the opera soon but had to speak with you." He didn't seem phased by the news, as though he had already known. He clasped her hand and stood stiffly from his desk. He pulled a chair out from against the wall and indicated she should sit, then pulled the chair from the desk over to face it. She fidgeted a little, not sure where to begin.

"I'm considering purchasing the opera house," she began. His eyes seemed to struggle not to betray the giddiness in his body then. "My manager is coming down from London later this week to take over from the partners. I want to be sure this was a…pleasant arrangement for you," she concluded. He looked away for a moment, as though weighing his options.

"When do you leave for the conservatory?" he asked.

"The day after tomorrow. But…if, well, I will own the opera house and, um, it wouldn't be unheard of for me to…lodge here rather than the school," she stuttered. He wanted to laugh at her, and, though he tried to contain it, it came out, bubbling up like water. Cassandra wasn't certain what she had done at first, but reflecting on her sentence, she realized how funny it had sounded and laughed as well. Cassandra smiled at him, but he merely smirked at her.

"So unsure of yourself in regards to your own property, all but asking permission from me to stay in your own opera house when it should be the opposite," he proclaimed. She continued to chuckle at herself, looking down at her hands. She wore gloves to protect her hands from the light outside, her arms covered to her wrists, her collar coming up to her chin. She would have worn a wide brim hat if she had needed it, but was now indoors. She was fashionable, but noticeably covered. Anyone else would have seen her to be conservative, but Erik recognized it as her mask.

Her gently took one hand and pulled off the glove. Her hands were well taken care of, one shade of light pink from the constant wearing of gloves. Her fingertips were calloused from the strings of her instrument, but not rough. Her other hand was the same. When he had taken off her gloves, she looked up at him and carefully reached up to take off his mask. It was almost a ritual for them by now. They could not talk to each other honestly with the boundaries held that they had established for others. He was more reluctant to take off his mask that she her gloves, but he did it. He understood that she wanted, needed, to see his face. She smiled at him when it was gone, as she always did when he took it off. It was a change to have someone smile at his distorted face rather than look repulsed by it.

"Erik…" she began softly, looking into his eyes. He stood abruptly and walked to his desk, picking up the stack of papers and handing them to her.

"Its got one more cadence to add to the end, but it is finished," he told her. She looked through the music curiously. It was an ensemble piece, for a chamber group. An odd instrumentation with a violin, cello, clarinet, string bass, oboe, French horn and percussion, but as she looked through she saw how it worked. It was amazingly thought out and progressed interestingly. The violin was the main attraction, with the clarinet and horn working together as a viola substitute. The percussion was mostly rumbling on the timpani, but there was also a solo with the string bass the looked like it would be like thunder. A storm.

She looked up at him. "What's it for," she asked.

"I thought you could try it at the conservatory. The crowd here wouldn't appreciate it, but the students at the school might think it interesting," he concluded as he reclaimed his seat.

"Thank you," she said quietly, still analyzing it in her head. The chords were thick, especially in the beginning, and there would be dissonance, but it would work. She smiled as she looked at the piece. "What's it called?" she asked.

"I thought you could title it," he replied. She smiled at that.

"May I hear it before I title it?" she asked

"Of course," he replied and took the music from her to finish the ending. She sat quietly as he worked, until she couldn't stand the silence.

"Why do you want me to buy the opera house? Truly?" she asked. He put a final note on the page and returned it to her. Looking at her, he knew she really did want a response. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He could lie, say it was to be sure he wouldn't be hunted down, or he could say it was so the music would be of better taste, but her knew he couldn't lie to her over something so serious to her. He looked up from his hands and focused on a brick in the opposite wall, right beyond her face. Blinking, he caught her eye and just stared at her, his mouth open trying to articulate unformed words. Finally, he convinced himself to just blurt it out.

"I didn't want you to leave. I wanted you to have to stay in Paris…in the opera house. I didn't want you to leave." He looked away from her then, refusing to meet her eyes. He had betrayed Christine in admitting his feelings for Cassandra in this manner. He had betrayed Cassandra by telling her of his love. She was too good for him, too close to his perfect dream, for him to honestly pursue. She would leave, and she needed to. Her career was just beginning and being tied down in the bowels of an old opera house to a half man was not the way to grow in her career.

Cassandra was stunned. Not that he cared for her, she had suspected that in spite of all his stubbornness and silence, but that he had admitted it. Well, come close to admitting it. She looked at her hands, delicate and white, yet strong and calloused. When she looked up, he almost seemed as though he would cry. As though he was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed of his love for her, she realized. She looked back at her hands and could see the beginnings of one of her abnormalities peaking innocently out from under the cuff of her sleeve. He was ashamed of her discolorations, as she was ashamed. He knew that she would never be able to be out during the day, never able to have a picnic in the park, never able to take her hat off and feel the sun without the burn and scars that came. She began to cry. She was unloveable.

He saw her crying and knew it was the despair that came with being loved by a creature, not worthy to be called a human. He would never be to her what any other man could be and, because of that, he would have to let her go. He wanted to wipe away her tears as the streaked down her face.

He couldn't even bear to touch her, to comfort her as she cried. She was too hideous, too marked. As she reached up to wipe her own tears, her makeup came off and she knew he would see, once again, all of her marks and cried harder. He was ashamed of his caring for her. How couldn't he be? She slowly rose from her chair.

"I'm sorry I am not what you need," she said quietly as she walked towards the boat. He watched her go, pushing the boat through the still water till she was out of sight. He had once again lost the one he could not have. He would once again mourn.

She had left her gloves on the chair. He carefully picked them up and carried them to his desk. The wooden box still sat there and he carefully removed its sealed lid. He took out the blood red scarf and replaced it with the little white gloves. He then took the scarf to the roof top and let it be caught by the wind and swept out to the canal, out to the ocean, and out of his life.

A/N: Its not over! I promise, I wouldn't do that to you, lol. I know this one is short, but there was so much in it…Ok, I'll start the next chapter now…don't hurt me! hehe


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